Page 70 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

I don’t care what it’s called. I want his hands somewhere other than my shoulders, I want it badly enough that my whole body aches with it, and I am done pretending I don’t.

I’ve been keeping a careful half-distance this past week. Processing. Trying to understand what’s happening between us, what the couch meant, what I want it to mean. Even after the festival, even after that photo booth and the later we both agreed to, I panicked and manufactured three days of busyness, reorganizing inventory that didn’t need it, closing out registers that were already closed, telling myself that caution is wise, that moving slowly is smart, that there are excellent logical reasons not to throw myself at the supernatural creature who shows up every night to make sure I’m safe.

Right now, in this moment, with his hands on me and his voice still echoing in my ears, I don’t want distance anymore.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

His eyes flare bright gold.

“Fable…”

“Kiss me. Please.”

He does.

There’s nothing gentle in it, nothing careful. This kiss is desperation, a dam breaking after a week of pressure, all the tension flooding through us at once. His hands slide from my shoulders into my hair, tilting my head back, and he kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the only air in the world.

I grab fistfuls of his shirt, yank him closer, press myself against him until there’s no space between us. He groans against my mouth, a low, rough sound that vibrates through my whole body, and I feel myself going liquid, melting into him.

“Not here.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Not in the shop.”

“Upstairs.”

“Are you sure? After what just…”

“I’m sure.” I bite his lower lip, feel his whole body shudder. “I want you. I’ve wanted you all week. Take me upstairs.”

He hauls me up, hands under my thighs, my legs locking around his waist, and carries me through the stockroom. We knock over an entire display on the way, send a dozen shirtless dukes scattering across the floor.

Neither of us cares.

Rain starts outside, sudden and heavy. I can hear it against the windows as we reach the top of the stairs, a downpour drumming against the glass, turning the world outside silver and blurred.

He carries me through my apartment, kicks the bedroom door open, lays me down on the bed with something like reverence. Then he pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are blazing gold.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Everything.”

“Be specific.”

“I want you inside me.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “I want you to stop holding back. I want to feel you lose control.”

And then his expression fractures. The careful restraint he always wears, that seamless armor of his, cracks. Just a little. Just enough for me to see the hunger underneath.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

He kisses me again, swallowing whatever else I might have said, and his hands are everywhere, pulling at my shirt, finding skin, mapping every inch of me like he’s committing it to memory. My shirt goes. My bra. His shirt, finally, finally, I get to touch him properly, run my hands over all that muscle and heat.

“So beautiful.” The words are murmured against my throat, rough and reverent. “You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts.”

His mouth traces down my neck, and I feel his teeth graze my pulse point, just a scrape, just a hint of sharpness, and my whole body arches off the bed.

“Orion…”

“I want to taste every inch of you.” His lips move to my collarbone, my chest, the sensitive skin between my breasts. “I want to memorize you. I want to ruin you for anyone else.”